


Blessed Are the Big Macs

by foibles_fables



Category: Warrior Nun (TV)
Genre: Ava can have a little McDonald's, F/F, Femslash, Fluff, as a treat, quasi-sequel, there are some feelings in here too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:46:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26645464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foibles_fables/pseuds/foibles_fables
Summary: “For real?” Unbridled excitement had bubbled up into Ava’s words and made its cautious but irrepressible appearance across her face. “The mission is...aMcMission?”Some time later, a wrong is righted. Ava finally receives what she once missed, thanks to Beatrice.[quasi-sequel to Because the Light Is Close. Look, I actually wrote something lighthearted.]
Relationships: Sister Beatrice/Ava Silva
Comments: 65
Kudos: 339





	Blessed Are the Big Macs

**Author's Note:**

> So this was asked for a few times...and here it is! A loose sequel to Because the Light Is Close. Ava finally gets her McDo. I purposefully left a lot of this to be ambiguous (timing, plot, etc.), so please fill it in however you want. ~~Until the moment I decide to write an actual, true sequel~~ Actually, nobody wish that upon me, please.

“Oh man. Oh _man_. I’m so pumped. This is, like, absolutely going to hit the spot right now. It smells amazing in here. I’m actually drooling.”

Grease, Beatrice thinks. It smells like grease. The sort of penetrating smell that’s certainly going to linger in the van (and on their clothing) when they return to Cat’s Cradle, rendering the purpose behind this _private mission_ completely obvious. Not that it wasn’t obvious to begin with. To anyone but Ava, at least, who had been visibly preparing herself (familiar rituals of full determined glare and positive self-talk) for some nebulously-described reconnaissance task until the very moment Beatrice made a right turn into this McDonald’s parking lot. Ava had seemed puzzled with the unexpected stop for just an instant before the pieces clicked into place. She had turned toward Beatrice, eyes glowing with the same intensity as the neon yellow arches of the sign above, beckoning them through the twilight.

“For real?” Unbridled excitement had bubbled up into Ava’s words and made its cautious but irrepressible appearance across her face. “The mission is...a _McMission_?”

And despite (or because of - she was undecided) the ridiculousness, Beatrice couldn’t stop the corners of her own mouth from curling upward. “Hm. A McMission. Yes, I suppose it is.” Ava’s eager grin had gleamed almost comically with the confirmation. “Can’t let the Halo Bearer go hungry. Besides, I believe this is owed as recompense for a past transgression.”

Ava whooped out loud, giving a fervent nod before pumping both fists in vindicated glory. “Hell yeah it is!”

Blinking in surprise at the burst of enthusiasm was a reflexive response. But Beatrice has learned to recover quickly from all of Ava’s ricochets.

“I’m just glad you’re apparently excited? And that you’re easily pleased.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s _McDonald’s_. You know I’ve been waiting for this.”

That much, Beatrice knows, is comprehensively true. This is a bright spot in the midst of so much fire and brimstone. Shadows, lies, fear, discovery - all of it, faced head-on. Fighting against the urge to run. Sharing self, sharing names, sharing hearts. Simple revelations, but certainly not _easy_ revelations. Accepting change, learning herself. Leaning into every unknown and everything that brings her fear.

(And all of _that_ is not pertinent to only Ava.)

There’s still more work to be done. Every question answered somehow spawns at least five or six more to chase after - a dizzying sort of eternal propagation. Sometimes it’s still hard to breathe.

But there is a time for every matter under heaven. Beatrice could go through the list in its entirety, but it doesn’t seem necessary. But they have some leeway for a tiny dalliance. A time for toil, and a time for fast food.

So, more quietly, then. “Yes, I know you have.” A hint of _so have I_ slipping through, right along the careful edges of her proclamation. But said or unsaid, part of it must have been heard, because Ava’s smile softened (somehow with no loss of elation).

“Come on, Bea. It’s burger time and _I’m lovin’ it_!”

Unbuckling her seatbelt and shaking her head, Beatrice had wondered how many iterations of that slogan she would hear before the evening was over.

(Current count is four.)

But any half-hearted exasperation at the repetitive attempts at McDonald’s Humor has become difficult to harbor in the face of Ava’s genuine thrill. Especially standing in the lobby, drowned in harsh overhead fluorescence, watching Ava peruse the admittedly-extensive menu board. Eyes narrowed in deep concentration, hands folded as though in prayer, fingertips to her lips, subtle restless rocking from her toes to her heels. So many small things Beatrice finds herself noticing and noting and admiring. (And Beatrice wonders what Ava has noticed about her. But at that moment, Ava had been enthralled by the combo meals. And that had been acceptable.)

A somewhat-distressed, exaggerated sigh had interrupted her pondering. “Okay. Wow. I’m jazzed to be here. But I’m also maybe a _little_ overwhelmed and unprepared. You kinda blindsided me with this field trip. Gotta give a girl a minute to consider her options, yeah?”

_It’s McDonald’s_ , Beatrice had wanted to say, but didn’t. The silently-teasing roll of her eyes offered in its place, however, did not go unnoticed.

“Hey. I don’t need the sass, I just don’t know what I want.” Beatrice wasn’t quite sure if a single wordless roll of her eyes could be considered _sass_ , but. Ava had then raked a hand through her hair, reconsidering the end of her statement. “Okay, lie. I know exactly what I want, and it’s one of each. But that’s probably not a super-prudent idea, right?”

“It’s a relief that you recognize that.” The praise had seemed to be warranted. “But you can order as much as you like. I’m buying.”

“And by _I’m_ buying, you definitely mean _the good old secret OCS corporate card_ is buying.” Ava’s wise elaboration had come with a conspiratorial smirk. “Is Cruella de Jesus cool with this?”

A noncommittal shrug. “She’ll have to be.” Dispensation for junk food would undoubtedly be met with that perpetual glowering deadpan from their Reverend Mother, but also ultimate approval, given the woman’s increasing affection for Ava and (only _very_ occasionally) her antics.

And the way Ava’s eyebrows had arched in sly solidarity had made Beatrice’s wits sing with the word _affection_ as well. Still daunting to let it rush through and deeper in without the impulse to bite it down. But also warm. A fluttering of something that feels almost like fear. But she knows it’s not fear, because it’s been shifted from just that - the result of slowly ripping herself from the middle distance of mortification and self-torment. There are plenty of kinds of perdition. Some are formed from the false notions of others; some come from within. And sitting with this novel but natural feeling, letting it make its way through her veins, pure invigoration, is always a graceful reward of its own. As Ava glanced back up at the disinterested cashier, Beatrice had let the honey-mild sensation roll over her, tucking her chin just so slightly toward her shoulder.

“Cool.” Oft-repeated. “Cool. Okay, a small sampling, then. I’m game. But I _do_ promise I won’t drain the coffers by supersizing. I don’t even think you can do that anymore? Damn it. I understand the concept that no single human needs, like, a literal bucket of french fries. But I’ll also reiterate the fact that I’m starving.”

“So go place your order.”

The flash of instinctive confusion that crossed Ava’s face as she glanced between Beatrice and the cashier had brought Beatrice back to just how much life Ava missed. And there had been a dull ache to accompany the thought. But Ava had recovered as quickly as she had just faltered, nodding fervently.

“Yeah. Cool. I’m ready.”

Beatrice had concurred: she was.

So that was what led them to this moment: sitting side by side in the rear compartment of the van, doors open to the mild summer evening air. They could have dined inside. But in an unspoken agreement, this had been the preferable option. A return to some strange tangle of roots neither has verbalized, but both seem to understand. Undisturbed, alone together. Trying to feel like themselves in laypersons’ clothing.

Beatrice is trying, at least.

Ava, already comfortable, just tends to steal glances. Here and there, Beatrice might try to do the same. But her glances always manage to catch Ava’s eyes instead, proving for those fleeting moments that elementality can travel in two directions at the same time.

Right now, though, Ava is sitting cross-legged on the floor, gazing upon her smorgasbord with near-reverence: choices made because they were the “classics.” A Quarter Pounder in her left hand, two boxes of four-piece Chicken McNuggets in her right. A large order of fries and a cup with half-Sprite, half-lemonade cradled in the space between her legs. Dipping sauces - one of each, laid out in order of favorite to least favorite (Sweet N’ Sour and Creamy Ranch, respectively, making up the bookends) - with three little cups of ketchup interspersed at regular intervals. Might as well be a stained glass portrait.

(Ava had wanted a McFlurry, too. The ice cream machine had, predictably, been out of order.)

And while Ava’s eyes are on her feast, Beatrice’s eyes are on Ava. Observing how her utter delight over the junk is nearly causing her to vibrate at a level that might resonate with the Halo and cast her into some separate dimension. The Warrior Nun, God’s champion, atoms scattered with deep-fried chicken in hand, and Beatrice to blame. The thought is actually funny and she wants to laugh.

Instead, she asks: “Are you going to eat, or just admire?”

Ava looks up. Beams. Sends that same clement disturbance down Beatrice’s spine, vertebrae by vertebrae.

“You should be proud. I was saying grace.”

“Were you, now?”

“Yeah. Thanking the blessed clown Ronald for these gifts from his bounty.”

Beatrice should have seen it coming.

Without allowing even a second for remark, Ava christens a chicken nugget in the plastic font of Sweet N’ Sour sauce and stuffs it into her mouth, whole. “Oh my _God_ ,” she groans, voice throaty and obscured by the morsel, eyes rolling back. It’s clear that this is not a situation of His name not being used in any sort of vain - it’s akin to prayer. “Phenomenal.” And it’s almost as though Beatrice can see the dopamine centers in Ava’s brain light up and whip themselves into a frenzy at that first taste of crisp savory wrapped up in cloying tang.

(Beatrice doesn’t want to know if _or_ how the Halo is responding. Some things should remain mysterious and sacred. Hopefully, there won’t be any ecstatic levitation.)

“Worth the wait, I hope.”

Ava swallows and selects another nugget (baptism in barbecue sauce, this time). “Hell yeah. I mean, I can feel my arteries clogging already.” She takes a smaller bite this time, chewing thoughtfully. “Do you think the Halo prevents plaque build-up? Imagine it. I could eat this every single day and not keel over in my thirties.”

“Who knows? The wonders never cease.” Beatrice reaches into the paper bag sitting between them for her own food. “For now, just please try not to choke.”

“On it.” A french fry salute, followed by another moment of consideration. “Choking. What would the Halo do about that? I’m thinking I probably wouldn’t be affected by the lack of oxygen, but I’d still need the Heimlich to clear my windpipe- _oh_! Maybe I would be able to phase my body away from the nugget fragment. Just, like, take a step forward and I’d be set.”

Beatrice lets the speculation continue as she unwraps her cheeseburger and lifts the top bun for inspection. Noticing, Ava quiets down.

“All good? No pickle, right?”

“Yes, fine. It’s correct.”

“I still kind of can’t believe you’re not a fan. Wouldn’t have pegged you for the picky type.”

A simple aversion to pickles hardly obliges the label of _picky_. “I’m allowed to dislike them.” Her desires are valid - the trivial and the considerable alike. Strains of thought made salient, able to be clasped and appraised and scrutinized by others. Exhibiting them with a diminished degree of restraint has begun to freeze her blood less and less.

“Totally,” Ava agrees at once, all wild acceptance and radical approval in that seamless way. Suddenly they’re not exactly talking about pickles. “Though, I would’ve taken them off your hands if you’d have gotten them by mistake. I happen to…” Here it comes. “ _Relish_ them.”

Pursed lips, more for show than anything. “I appreciate that. The briny taste tends to linger, though. Also, it’s bold of you to call me finicky when you made just as emphatic a demand for no onions, if not more.”

Ava squints, as though she’s about to utter the most fundamental and obvious statement in this life or the next. “Because onions _suck_ , Beatrice.” She marks the statement with a feisty chomp of her onionless sandwich, followed by a broad, full-mouthed grin.

Beatrice meets the clear theatrics with a fond click of her tongue and an appeasing nod, choosing to take a bite of her own in lieu of giving a verbal confirmation or denial. It doesn’t taste unpleasant. In fact, it tastes hedonic, but heavy, and Beatrice knows it’s going to make her feel tired and sluggish during training. But that’s a concern for the future, not for this dusk-wrapped moment in the back of the van, sitting here with Ava and Ava’s fistful of french fries and the smear of ketchup at the corner of Ava’s mouth. Beatrice takes note of it - blinks at it, once or twice. Thinks about any number of things that seem incongruous at the surface, but not when boiled down. Every divergence eventually will connect.

Ava’s eyes, too, connect with hers when she stops being enamored with her fries long enough to become cognizant of Beatrice’s stare.

“I have something on my face, don’t I.”

“Ketchup,” Beatrice confirms with gentle amusement, passing her a napkin, because Ava had been too preoccupied with her spoils to remember to bring any out here. (Beatrice had remembered.)

Ava takes the offering and wipes her mouth, smiling, and there’s no sheepishness or shame in it. And though there’s no expectation of anything transactional, she holds up a few fries, extending them in Beatrice’s direction.

“Have some? I’m gonna feel like an entire ass if you brought me all the way here then eat just a single burger.”

Beatrice smiles softly, wordlessly affirms. And the fries are still hot and very salty, and the way Ava’s swirling deep-brown eyes light up as Beatrice chews makes her wrists throb, her ears buzz. Makes her think, _please don’t mind that I’m looking_. Going crazy to be so close.

They eat quietly, for a while, until they’re both finished - seated shoulder to shoulder, backs pressed against the van’s rear compartment side wall. And each breaths and makes slow, subtle movements for the other to feel there in the falling darkness, the expanding shadows. There’s sincerity in their bodies - full, not empty. And this is nothing illicit or hidden - it’s just quiet. Clandestine. But sacred, not shameful. There’s light even in the growing lack of it all around them. Beatrice’s heart isn’t as quiet as she once would have hoped, pulse in a fit. She doesn’t think Ava’s heart is quiet, either. Not much about Ava is ever really quiet.

A theory further supported when Ava breaks the silence.

“Thanks, Bea.” The nickname again. One of the several appellations she knows Ava is aware of, and is at ease with Ava being aware of. Ava prefers to use the one she learned first, shortened with endearment. This one is the simplest, the most intimate, the way it nearly pops off of Ava’s lips. Yet another version of herself, past and present melding into this person with this new way of being. Ava takes a long drink from her sugar-filled waxy paper cup to give herself a chance to arrange her next thoughts into her next words. “I appreciate you doing this. It seems asinine, I know, but it really means a lot.”

“As I said, it was owed. I’m happy to do it. Truly. ”

“Yeah. I know you are.” Ava bites her lip. “I used to have McDonald’s all the time, before everything.” Rarely specifics. And that’s fine for both of them. “I think it wasn’t easy for my mom, y’know, as a single parent? I was little and don’t remember much, but I feel like it was tough. We’d always go on these outings to McDonald’s once every couple weeks, sometimes more often. They’re some of the clearest memories of her I can bring up, now. A Happy Meal and an hour or so in the PlayPlace. I was a really active kid until...”

Her words trail off, but Beatrice finishes them, only in her mind. _Until I couldn’t be_. They echo there, reverberating and reminding and chipping away, bringing on a pang of sadness for the unencumbered little girl Beatrice would never know. But forward is the way, always, ever on, until eternity, and Beatrice knows what Ava does, and does not, need to hear reflected back.

And right now, she knows that’s banter.

“I was shocked you didn’t want to frolic around in there today. I would have said yes if you had asked to.”

Ava laughs out loud. “I’m a very serious Warrior Nun, now. It’s far past time to put away childish things.” Then, deadpans. “Also, I might have looked, and there were a bunch of kids in there already. It would’ve been thoroughly weird of me to join.”

“Fast food wasn’t exactly a mainstay of my childhood,” Beatrice points out in neutral comparison. Unsophisticated, for a diplomat family - the indifference she feels for it now probably hearkens back to its rarity when she was small. “Less so in boarding school. I wasn’t part of the crowd who would go all about and get into misbehavior.”

“ _Quelle surprise_ ,” Ava lets out on the end of a sarcastic sigh, followed by a close-lipped smirk. “I guess we both missed out on that three-in-the-morning wasted Big Mac run era of life.”

“I suppose we did.”

“But hey. Maybe there’s still hope for us and all that debauchery that passed us right over.”

The future is uncertain. More and more, though, it looks to be overflowing with possibilities.

But right now, the hour grows late.

“We should start back soon,” Beatrice points out. “If we leave now, perhaps we can make a stop to get you some kind of frozen treat. I feel bad you couldn’t get what you wanted here.”

Ava makes a face, takes a deep breath, and places a protective hand over her stomach. “Nah. Appreciate the offer, but I think I’m good. There’s a nonzero chance of me vomiting if I ingest even one more thing.” She turns toward Beatrice, then, and the unabashed, heavy-eyed look she gives sends shockwaves rippling, reminding Beatrice of how their warm, sated bodies are in facile contact. “Besides. I can think of something I might want more?”

And then Ava is moving in, burning up even more of the limited distance between them. The proximity change makes Beatrice’s breath catch on itself, stumbling in the anticipation of this gesture that’s still so very new and unpracticed. As the instants hover, she thinks of the intertwining of humanity and divinity. How human of her to be afraid to do something so unaccustomed. How divine, to be afraid, and to do it anyway.

Ava’s breathing eventually becomes uncontrolled, too. Beatrice hears it in the split second before their lips meet. And Beatrice thinks of nothing at all, for a long moment - besides how she doesn’t taste like grease, or salt, or pickle brine. She tastes like Ava, one of the many things Beatrice is still learning. The world makes a steady, hallowed pass at coming open. Beatrice’s ears ring with this new-found grace.

When they break apart, they don’t really break apart. Only the curve of Ava’s smile separates them, mouths brushing, foreheads bumping together. Their eyes barely open. They don’t need to. It’s them, just them, there in the tranquil evening-light parking lot.

Ava’s hands, hungry for more, come to rest on Beatrice’s cheeks.

Beatrice leans in, and drinks deep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, for reading! Hit me up on Twitter or tumblr!


End file.
